


Who Says That Murder's Not An Art?

by EstellaJean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crime Solving, Deductions, Forensics, Murder Mystery, Science, Serial Killers, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstellaJean/pseuds/EstellaJean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A London art gallery gains rapid public attention after the unveiling of a collection piece leads to a horrific discovery. In place of a prized statue were the bodies of seven women, which appeared to be dipped in wax. However, Sherlock concludes that the bodies were preserved into soap. Bizarre experiments, curious investigations, and unexpected twists await the crime solving duo. Watch them solve this interesting case complete with Sherlockian deductions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death on Display

Dedication: I dedicate this story to my girlfriend Hailey. Her wonderful ideas really helped me to form the storyline and her encouragement gave me the guts to actually follow through with it. Thank you!  
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock  
Everybody please review! And excuse the pauses between chapters as I plan out the next step of their adventure.

Death on Display

The white room began to shrink as the sound of tapping heels and clinking champagne glasses echoed resolutely and filled the space with vibrating anticipation. The gallery opened its oak doors for the first time, and within an hour guests in long gowns and tuxedos had trickled up the steps and filtered into the wide room lined with framed paintings, and columns displaying intricate sculptures in a variety of mediums. The chatter created a dull hum occasionally interrupted by an obnoxiously loud laugh, or the voice of a patron with pretentious enthusiasm declaring their fortune at discovering Mr. Christanza’s work previous to this sudden fame. One man in particular caught the attention of people who drifted by to stop at a painting of a blocky skeletal figure, twisted within a vine of colorful paint splatter. The man’s height, roughly handsome features, and distinguished charcoal suit almost concealed the graying hairs at his temples. Around him gathered a small crowd of men and women who nodded and sounded their agreement to his statements.

“Christanza’s piece here really is intriguing. Look at the carelessness of the paint, at the splatter, and the saturated choice of color palette”. His smooth voice drawled, “The achromatic scheme he uses for the background and the figure--a slight cubism inspiration—conveys a contrast between spontaneity and structure, truly capturing his ideas behind this collection—“  
The man was stopped short by a poised feminine voice, tinged with cordial airiness to hide her annoyance.

“I should hand you a microphone. You could do my job for me”, asserted the accented tone of Meredith Dandurant. The blonde woman in her silver evening gown moved forward into the group of people with intimidating grace.

“Meredith Dandurant” She said and struck out a cold hand towards the man as an offerance.  
He scrutinized the thin fingers and manicured nails briefly and then took it into his own much stronger hand with unwavering attitude.

“Bruce Hartford” he replied. They studied each other’s eyes and shook with a matched firmness.

“American” she noted.

“French” he observed.

“I understand you are the gallery director. Am I correct?” he questioned. Although the group of people he had previously been entertaining had departed, they still kept in a generally close radius out of curiosity. Their eyes darted between the man and woman over their bubbling flutes of champagne, mumbling thoughtlessly in lowered tones.

“You are correct. Are you in the art business?” she asked in return. A smirk quirked at the edge of the man’s mouth. It lifted his face on one side in a way that revealed wrinkles underneath his left eye.

“You could say that” was his only response to her question “Congratulations on acquiring Christanza. He is a shining new artist. A gem.”

His smirk broadened to a grin that was so apparently fake that Meredith thought that it might shatter at any given moment. She gave him an equally transparent smile and thanked him for his comment and for attending.

“Of course” he said simply “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to view this event tonight”

For some reason this struck her as odd. She suspected this man was also an art director because of his extensive knowledge of the pieces on display. Either that or he was quite a convincing charlatan if she’d ever seen one. His familiarity with Christanza’s works suggests perhaps that had met previously on business terms. Yet despite this and his ridiculous egocentric attitude, he attended her gallery opening. Her confusion must have been evident on her face.

“I’m just here to wish you luck, as another art enthusiast and member of the industry” he justified and attempted to make his smile more genuine in appearance. However this didn’t dispel any of Meredith’s confusion due to the unlikeliness of his story. She nodded regardless. Her vision traced his face where something was inexplicably familiar to her. She knew him. But from where?  
A short woman in a little black dress scuttled towards her with a clipboard and whispered something in her ear which Bruce couldn’t distinguish, but he was sure he heard the word ‘schedule’. The short woman scuttled away the same way she came and instantly her interruption was forgotten.  
“It was lovely meeting you” she said with a lack of meaning behind the words. The man nodded with another quirked smile and raised his champagne glass in cheers.

“Charmed Ms. Dandurant”

She shuttered at the sliminess of the man and the sound of her name on his tongue. Whoever he was she intensely disliked him, his arrogance, and his sickeningly polite façade.

“If you will excuse me I have to give the opening speech now” She said before thankfully escaping the man’s presence, leaving him looking after her direction while he sipped his champagne. She felt his unreadable expression boring into the back of her head. She resolved to have her assistant Cara research him later. She was certain his reason for being there was less than amicable.  
Within minutes the lights in the gallery room dimmed. The guests gravitated toward a spotlight set on a small stage in the center of the room on which stood a podium where Meredith waited patiently with a warm smile for silence. The crowd settled from its dull roar to a quiet murmur and finally to a vast soundlessness. She cleared her throat lightly and began.

“Thank you, guests and patrons. My name is Meredith Dandurant, the art director of the London Galerie de l’art humain. I am honored to formally invite you to the opening of this truly unique gallery of art. We hope that by the end of this special night you’ll find knowledge, inspiration, enlightenment, and a new understanding of the human experience. Friends, I will now introduce you to a man with a vision, a passion, and an unparalleled talent for modern art, the man whose pieces you have seen tonight featuring his debut collection, Leo Christanza”  
The French woman raised her arm toward the left and an awkwardly lanky man climbed the steps on the opposite side of the stage. A burst of applause erupted and the man squinted through the glare of the spotlight to smile at the people below. He nervously crossed the stage to the podium where Meredith relinquished her place. When the applause had ended he shakily started to speak.

“Good evening. I appreciate your a-attendance tonight at my first public collection viewing...” he looked down at the podium where his notes lay hidden from view. He licked his lips and struggled on.

“The inspiration behind my art always originates from the same place. It is the place of infinite complexities, in diversity of ideas. It is a web we are all part of. It is both a desire and a challenge. The human experience.”

He paused for effect and also to read his next few sentences of notes. He glanced anxiously at the covered display case behind him which would be unveiled in a matter of moments. He wiped his sweaty palms on his stiff tuxedo, which was much too formal for his taste, and then his eyes returned to the dark faces in the shadows beyond.

“I request that as you view my work, you do not define its perfections, nor its flaws, but identify with the art as a whole. Each of us is a work of art. Not to be set apart to be judged, but to be appreciated for our equal human qualities. These qualities will stand against the test of time and fleeting ephemeral life, they will be preserved in art and culture and persevere forever. And now I shall reveal the main installation of my collection, a statue conveying the variances and transformations within a human life, from innocence to lust, and strength to age, I introduce to you The Woman”

His words slipped from his lips and into the soundless room, the syllables bounced in an echo across the walls and drifted to a stop in the minds of the observers just as the curtain covering the case on the stage began to fall. The red fabric rippled softly in its decent. At first the room remained completely silent and it seemed that even breathing had ceased among the audience. Time slowed, stuck in a single second, stretching it out into infinity. Meredith’s anticipating expression had not changed. Even Bruce’s composure had not been shocked. Even the drop of sweat on the artist’s forehead had not dripped. Then like a gunshot the moment was shattered with a bloodcurdling shriek from a middle aged woman near the center of the crowd. The sound was the catalyst to an event of horror and chaos. People swung into motion, high pitched screams were contained by the gallery walls and reflected back in endless cycle of cacophony, high heels scraped the marble floor harshly, creating claw marks on the clean new surface, and desperate elbows pushed passed people in a crazed pressure for release from the densely packed and panicked bodies. Minutes later the beautifully decorated room, recently glorified, was left vacant. Fragments of glass littered the floor from champagne flutes discarded in the scramble. Sparkling pieces of fabric from torn evening dresses mingled with crumpled napkins. An abandoned shoe waited in vain for its owner to return. An ornately detailed sculpture which once stood pristinely admired on a display column was now a scatter of remains. The only thing which was static throughout the chaos, the only thing which stood resilient, was the glass display case sitting on the elevated stage in the center of the room. The decayed eyes of the seven corpses within watched from their place as the world unfolded before them.  


*Sherlock Theme Song*


	2. The Art of Deduction

The Art of Deduction

John was curled into an uncomfortable sleeping position on the couch when Sherlock's face appeared inches from his. The doctor's breath sucked in and puffed out at an uneven pace. Sherlock stared at him impatiently as if expecting his presence to wake the man up instantly.

"John!" he barked in the man's face. John started but did not wake. He abruptly turned over and mumbled something. Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his mouth closer to John's ear.

"JOHN!" he yelled. Suddenly the word triggered him awake. He opened his eyes and jumped at the proximity of his flat mate.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! What do you want?" he clamored to the other edge of the couch. "And could you please back up a couple feet. Your breath is suffocating me!"

Sherlock disregarded his request and jumped toward him eagerly, which to a still half asleep John Watson was frightening to say the least. His dazed mind hoped he wasn't about to become part of some psychological experiment.

"John there's been a deliciously wonderful murder at the opening of an art gallery. Seven murders actually! Lestrade just called and he needs us there now so hurry up and get your coat on"  
Sherlock leaped from the couch to the coat rack in a matter of seconds and before John had even sat up, the front door slammed shut behind him.

John was exhausted from his long day at work, from the endless paperwork and waves of patients. He got home late and crashed on the couch for only a little over 2 hours before this harsh awakening Sherlock brought him. He rubbed his face in an attempt to rub away the sleep and a thought crossed his mind to just go crawl into his bed and leave Sherlock to run around with murderers alone. Yet the thought was fleeting and he quickly concluded that Sherlock couldn't handle himself without him. The man was just a child with a high IQ and John was Mother Hen. Begrudgingly he stumbled around the room and the next thing he knew, the doctor was closing the door behind him and stepping into the cold street.

He discovered that for once Sherlock held the cab for him, earning him a thankful smile. He was leaning against the car with crossed arms and tapping fingers, anxiously desiring to arrive at the crime scene as soon as possible.

"There better be coffee there" John grumbled as his back hit the seat of the cab. He settled in to look out of the window at the street lights as they passed by in blurred streaks. Secretly he felt his nerves waken at the exciting thought of a new adventure. Even in exhaustion he wouldn't trade this exhilarating lifestyle he shared with Sherlock for anything less.

 

When they arrived John was astounded by the simultaneously beautiful and demolished room of white marble that surrounded him. He imagined what it must have looked like hours earlier when it was filled with people in formal wear and the sounds of celebration. The modern paintings that lined the entryway had shinning gold plaques underneath with the artist's name and the title of the artwork. He slowed down as he passed them, finally stopping at one and squinting to read the engraved print. Sherlock, not noticing his partner's absence, quickly moved ahead down the hall in a steady stride toward the sounds of voices.

The Isolation of Consciousness, John read, Artist—Leo Christanza  
Above the words was a framed picture of a man looking out of a window in the early morning—or perhaps dusk?—at the empty streets of a city. The tall buildings looked vast and vacant. Crumpled trash, skittered along the cobblestone and wind rustled through the man's grey hair, freezing it in the captured moment. John thought the painting was interesting and almost moved to see the next when he realized that Sherlock was no longer in sight. Feeling awkwardly isolated in the white walled space, he started off in Sherlock's direction again at a faster pace.

As he approached the main room of the gallery which opened up into a wide oval shape he saw investigators and police bustling around with an urgent fever. The brightness of the room increased the feeling of hard sterile reality in the wake of the chaotic event. One of the key characteristics that separated John from the other people immersed in the world of crime solving was his ability to walk into a crime scene and feel the same gravitational pull of emotion that the witnesses suffered with. He empathized with their panic, their denial, their realization that some life changing action had occurred and left them illusionless.

For example on his left two policemen spoke gently with an older man who clung to a hat that he wrung in his hands. He held back the tears in his eyes with determination. Yet even through the gentle questioning tones, the officers still failed to understand the overwhelming sensations which caused the older man to choke up as he responded. They simply pressed the matter further and explained his testimony was of vital importance. The old man only nodded distractedly.

In another part of the room, a woman wearing gloves delicately took swabs of a large panel of glass that was leaning against a wall next to a painting of a person trapped in an hourglass. Another police man took down a report from a short woman wearing glasses and a black dress. She pointed to the center of the room and talked so quickly that her words were indistinguishable. That's when John's attention was brought to the plastic tarps which sectioned off the middle portion of the room, labeled as a crime scene with glaringly yellow tape. Sherlock appeared from behind the edge of the plastic briefly to motion to him and then disappeared again.

"Hello John, nice to see you. How's your night been?" Lestrade casually greeted him as he entered and took a sip from a Styrofoam coffee cup. At first John nearly moaned at the smell and the sight of the steam as it wafted into the air.

"Oh decent I suppose..." the doctor responded distantly. Then his eyes traveled slowly to the frightening scene behind Lestrade.

Several feet above the ground was a slightly elevated stage where a glass display case had previously been standing. The glass casement had been carefully removed, most likely being examined for DNA or fingerprint markings by the female investigator he observed previously, and what remained was just the rectangular metal frame. Within it stood seven naked and stiffly posed forms of female bodies, unmistakably solid in appearance and infected with a postmortem paleness recognizable even at a distance. The most notable trait however was the wax like sheen of their skin. The texture was smooth and dense with an almost slimy film of coating covering the majority of their exterior. The bodies were nearly spared of decomposition except for their gory faces, eyes gelatinous and only partially intact, jaws exposed where the flesh had retreated and decayed teeth had rotted away under layers of obsidian gums.

On the stage Sherlock's eyes quickly flitted over the corpses, taking in every angle and perspective, stepping inside the metal cage and dancing strangely but gracefully in between them to get a better view of each. His eyes narrowed as he observed the skin of one woman's neck. John climbed the steps up the stage. Following Lestrade, he reached the display case. He took in the sight with a slower method than Sherlock, body by body. It was evident that he was both intrigued and confused by what was before him, furrowing his brow and wrinkling his forehead in the process of concentration. He struggled to find an explanation for the state of the bodies, for the strange hardness which had taken over the limbs and the slippery appearance of the skin which glowed under the sickly blinding lights above. It made his stomach twist for some reason. Yet compared to many bodies he had seen over the years these ones were in a fairly mild state. He couldn't even see any visible marks of a weapon used on the victims or signs of strangulation. Still he felt an eerie chill run through him at the sight.

"They look like they've been dipped in wax" Sergeant Donovan interrupted his thoughts. "Like the figures in those wax museums you know?"

Sherlock's head abruptly shot up from behind the body of a fat middle aged woman. His face contorted in a pained expression. John took a deep breath. He readied himself for the onslaught of insults about intelligence, and then the overdrawn but fantastically detailed explanation of why Sherlock must be the only person who has an understanding beyond even a moderate level of reasoning.

"Dipped in wax? Lestrade, are you sure your department isn't suffering from an outbreak of stupidity? It's quite contagious. It takes one idiot to make a subtle comment and the next thing you know your investigation is being led by glaring inaccuracies. Obviously these bodies weren't "dipped in wax". It's the process of saponification. Dear God I can't believe you needed me to tell you that" his voice sounded exasperated from needing to explain himself. No wonder Sherlock hated giving explanations! He spent 90% of his breath just with the insults!

John let out the breath he held and rolled his eyes at the drama Sherlock always found a way of causing. Sergeant Donovan crossed her arms and bit her lip to prevent yelling the list of curses she had whirling in her mind already for Sherlock. But even she was curious about this case and although she would never give Sherlock credit, inside she had the same expectant expression which John and Lestrade wore as they waited for him to go on.

There had barely been a pause since his last outburst when Sherlock groaned in a ridiculously theatrical way and continued his explanation. Here comes the overdrawn but fantastically detailed explanation part... John thought to himself. But truly although exasperated by Sherlock's attitude, he found this particular explanation to be one of intense interest. Sherlock's eyes glowed as he began to sort out the facts in his mind with an obsessed enthusiasm.

"Saponification is the chemical process of turning the alkaline hydrolysis of esters, or more commonly referred to as triglycerides, into carboxylic acids. Sodium hydroxide is a strong alkali which is highly soluble in water and creates the base for the process which when met with triglycerides results in a product of soap and glycerol. The fat in the bodies is an unpurified triglyceride, and just like the common animal fat, is capable of reacting with NaOH but only in very low oxygen environments with high moisture content. It is simply the process which creates the formation of solid soap, however when it occurs in corpses it is referred to as adipocere, a fairly rare process that occurs to corpses due to the specific environmental requirements needed for the process to begin"

"They turned into soap?" John asked incredulously. Even with all the strange occurrences he and Sherlock had witnessed throughout their many cases together, this was still a bizarre and unbelievable concept to him.

"At least partially" Sherlock continued. "Beneath the outer layer of saponified tissues there may be fat which was spared from the adipocere process. The elements which caused this might not have penetrated the body tissue completely, or for a short enough time that the process hadn't saponified the innermost fat reserves. In that case there would be enough unaltered tissues to run DNA tests on the corpses. Otherwise we'll have to take dental samples for DNA analysis"

"That's why no DNA could be found on the bodies" Lestrade noted to Sherlock, "we did a full exterior test of each victim and nothing has come up so far, granted it's only been a couple hours, but if you're right about this—"

"Of course I am" Sherlock interrupted with narcissism dripping from his voice "I'm always right" Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Fantastic! A gold star for Sherlock Holmes!" he responded with enough sarcasm to make Sergeant Donovan snort out a laugh and John to smile to himself in amusement. Sherlock honestly looked surprised and taken aback at the inspector's sass.

"Now as I was saying, if you're correct about the saponification process does that mean there is no way of identifying the perpetrator with DNA or could there be traces of it at the location where this process occurred on the bodies?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and began wandering around the display of preserved bodies as he thought about the question.

"No" he concluded, "Whatever environment caused the process to occur would have destroyed any traces of DNA. The area in which the process began would be completely clean"  
He stopped pacing, his body turned away from Lestrade and John. There was a long pause before he spoke again. His eyes darted back and forth as his conscious filled with theories and connections which he sifted through faster than the speed of light. Then in a burst, he spun around on his heels and words began to spill from his mouth so seamlessly with his thoughts that John wondered if he knew he was even speaking aloud.

"How clever... No DNA of the perpetrator, DNA of the victims hard to render but he was aware of this as he committed the crime. He must have been familiar with the process of saponification. He also has a flare for attention because why else would he showcase his masterpiece at the grand opening of an art gallery?" Sherlock let out a half crazed laugh at the thought and the gleam in his eyes was frighteningly joyful. He smiled to himself and pressed his palms together as he sometimes does when he had reached a particularly exhilarating epiphany. His words sped up and John struggled to hang on to them long enough to comprehend them.

"He is experienced. Perhaps he has knowledge in forensics—no wait!"

He broke off suddenly and redirected his theory.

"If his knowledge was extensive enough he would have known to remove the teeth and to keep the bodies in the NaOH environment long enough for it to penetrate the tissues completely and make DNA testing impossible. But perhaps that wasn't his aim after all. Maybe the preservation itself was his aim and had nothing to do with minimalizing the chances of DNA testing. We are looking at a Queen. An attention whore on a stage!" He finished wildly, his arms raised at his sides. He stared off dramatically with wide eyes at the place where the audience had stood for the gruesome unveiling hours before. John thought to himself that this is probably the stance that Sherlock makes in his visions of world domination.

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly and Sherlock returned back to reality, back tracking to regain his composure in a way that only John recognized as actual embarrassment. Believe it or not Sherlock did feel it. He had just spent most of his life squelching it under an impressive and arrogant façade.

"Yes well" he said collectedly "I'll need to see the full DNA trace reports when they are developed to confirm if there is or isn't any conclusive evidence on the perpetrator. I'll also need dental identification reports on the victims as soon as they are completed. And finally, I have a special task for Molly so when you are finished here and send the corpses to her for autopsy examination, be sure to have her call me right away. Now where is the art director? I'll need to speak with her"  
Lestrade was creating a mental checklist in his head when he realized that Sherlock had asked a question.

"Oh right, Meredith" he stammered "Well I think I've got that covered for now. I'll talk to her for you. If you have any specific questions for me to ask her I'll be glad to do so" Lestrade avoided eye contact and Sherlock gave him a confused look with a tilt of his head.

"Lestrade you know how I work. I need to observe her. Her testimonial is the most significant in the case! Not just because of the things she says but more importantly the things she doesn't say" Sherlock said as if this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

"I am aware of that Sherlock" he sighed frustrated "but technically this is my case and I think it is a delicate matter that I need to attend to personally. The poor woman is in a lot of shock over the event tonight and I don't exactly trust your people skills"

The same look of confusion on Sherlock's face persisted for a moment more and then transitioned. It broke into a look of knowing amusement.

"You fancy the art director. You're just using her testimony as an excuse for a date. Let me guess—coffee tomorrow morning at Local Color?"

Lestrade paled in embarrassment and Sergeant Donovan smirked at her boss being caught out. Maybe now he'll understand what it's like to be humiliated by the narcissistic consulting detective she thought. John felt sorry for the man. He must not get out often if the only way he can date is through the witnesses in his cases.

"That's completely not true!" he argued. Sherlock scoffed at that and again John prepared himself for another long explanation of deduction.

"When I arrived you were subtly rubbing your hands on your jacket. Your eyes dilated when I mentioned the art director and your reply to my question was immediate because you had already thought it through and were anticipating when and how to respond. You haven't stood still for the entire time John and I have been here. You're tapping your fingers around the coffee cup in your hand yet you have only taken one sip since I have been observing you and barely have the scent of it on your breath so caffeine is not a factor. Your body could have released adrenaline relating to the case but that's highly unlikely, after all, why would a man whose career involves crime solving be worked up in an environment that doesn't present even the slightest sign of immediate danger? More likely than that your body has recently disseminated the neurotransmitter norepinephrine which causes a short term heighten of energy in situations of initial physical attraction and I'm just going to assume that you haven't suddenly fallen madly for Sergeant Donovan here—"

"Hey!" she exclaimed in offense.

"—And your eyes have not traveled to any woman in the room. The only other female you've encountered since you arrived an hour ago who is not in this room presently was the one witness who you excused to leave. Therefore it is the female art director that has stimulated your hormones and compromised your judgement"

Sherlock's typically indifferent and insensitive tone had an accusatory edge which John detected immediately. Sherlock caught the frown John gave him and quickly looked away. He's hurt, John thought, he's upset Lestrade denied his involvement in the case because of a woman. The doctor admitted that Sherlock was often detached but not always, not with people like him and Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. He did have friendships which he sensitively protected and Lestrade had just violated a silent contract. Sherlock always got to interrogate the witnesses. John was both intrigued and humbled when he got to look into the window of Sherlock's inner thoughts. There was an intimacy about it which only he and Sherlock understood, in the brief moments that they caught eyes before he looked away and hid within his shell again. Without a pause the consulting detective abruptly began walking off the stage and away from the crime scene, disappearing behind the tarp. John followed closely behind, leaving Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan to gap after them.

"Sherlock slow down!" John called after the man he tried desperately to catch up with. It seemed he was always ten steps behind. His efforts to increase his pace were starting to make it hard to breath. Luckily Sherlock listened to his plea and slowed to a fast walk. John let out a sigh of relief as his friend fell into step with him, eventually slowing down further into a comfortable rhythm. It was past 11 by now and the streets they walked were nearly empty, few cabs had passed but they weren't interested in catching one anyways. They enjoyed the feeling of freedom that the night provided on the city streets and were in no hurry to return to the flat. John's thoughts of sleep were long forgotten and replaced with a calm energy. The air was chilly enough to see the wisps of their breath as it transpired and dispersed in front of them. John looked Sherlock over, at his long overcoat which his hands disappeared into and that silly scarf he always wore. He looked down at his own outfit and felt ridiculous. Sherlock had even told him to put on a coat before he left but he was too tired to register the advice. Now he regretted it dearly, shivering inside his black sweater.

"So" John broke the silence, "what did you end up finding out about the bodies?"

He found it strange that Sherlock hadn't announced his observations with his usual ardor at the crime scene. Sherlock continued to stare ahead of them at the street lights. Then his shocking reply came.

"Not much"

That was the first time John had ever heard that Sherlock hadn't found anything significant from his first impression of a case. Normally his mind instantly found connections at just the sight of the victim's body. This case had seven yet he had discovered nearly nothing except that saponification had occurred.

"Oh..." was John's awkward reply. He didn't know how to react to this situation which was most likely embarrassing to the all-knowing detective. Sherlock took a moment to collect his thoughts and then elaborated.

"The blonde woman has love bites along the skin of her neck which had to have occurred closely before the time of her death, which means that one of the last people to have seen her was a man. Her breasts have been artificially enlarged. There is an indent wear a ring used to sit on her finger but was recently removed. She is possibly cheating on her husband or recovering from a divorce. The young Indian woman has a tattoo on her wrist of a series of purple violets and the eye of a cat which I predict symbolizes some kind of affiliation"

"I recognize that" John interjected. "I've seen that somewhere...but I can't remember. I'll look into it."

Sherlock nodded and continued, "The third victim has scars on her forearms, parallel, uniform, self-inflicted, perhaps dealing with depression. The red thread like veins underneath the skin of her face caused by dilated blood vessels also suggests alcoholism. The fourth victim suffers from a sleep disorder such as insomnia which is apparent in the dark circles under her eyes and premature wrinkles. She has deep vein thrombosis in her left leg due to prolonged exposure to sitting in cramped spaces. Those two traits suggest she is most likely a frequent traveler and a business woman. The fifth woman, who is rather large, I approximate to be fifty years old. She has an unsatisfying marriage. She wears a ring which she has been wearing most of her life. Her finger has grown around it so it is impossible to take off, but the scraps and the bruising around her knuckle suggest she tried to remove it aggressively. The next two victims I couldn't gather any information about visually. The fact that they are naked and turned into soap complicates things"

Although the information wasn't as thorough as Sherlock's usual deduction John thought it was an excellent starting point. Once the victims had been identified they could fill in the gaps and begin to theorize why these particular woman were chosen for the gruesome crime. When they arrived at the flat John's exhaustion caught up to him and he quickly fell into a heavy sleep.


End file.
